Servant's Night Off
by Sensoo
Summary: Walter is kicked out of the mansion for an evening for a well-deserved break; like it or not. He finds an interesting drinking companion in a certain Iscariot. Strange, but I found it somewhat humorous... [Complete]
1. That First Drink

Uhh, I'm on a roll, aren't I? I'm not sure the point of this fic. I think it's rather humorous. So a priest, a vampire, and an English butler go into a bar and…well, OK, no vampire right now and no punch line either. This is some (again) OOC fun with Walter and Anderson. There simply are not enough Walter or Anderson-centric fics.   
  
Hellsing does not belong to me…though I wish certain male character's bodies did. I suppose I will have to make due with their souls.  
  
Arucard: I have no soul.  
  
Walter: Me neither.  
  
Anderson: Back ye fiend from Hell!  
  
Me: Umm…I love you?  
  
Servant's Night Off  
  
Arucard had always described these types of nights as magnificent; the kind that made him want to drink blood. The crimson hue of the sky coupled with the sinister thickness of the air, all beneath the heatless light of the moon made for an atmosphere worthy of a No Life King.  
  
Walter didn't care for them much. There was far too much tension mingled in the air. He lived with tension, dealt with it on a daily basis. He did not need to inhale it now. The combined factor of the actual stillness of the evening enhanced the unnatural feel of the night.   
  
Walter Cumm Ddolneazz had been ordered to take an evening respite. That expressly included leaving the vicinity of the Hellsing manor so that he could not "sneak" around to do his "busy work." Of course Walter would never be so base as to "sneak," he would merely wander around till he found a task to alleviate his boredom. But Sir Integra knew him too well. Sure, he'd scoffed and told her simply because he did not harm anything when he was experiencing anxiety, did not mean he had some repressed emotions that threatened his mental health. Integra denied the implication and instead cut to the quick; he was getting old- he needed a break, he deserved a break. Whether he liked it or not. She'd gone as far as personally escorting him off of the premises.  
  
The butler sighed, almost sorrowfully. He'd taught her too well. She was far too perceptive and strong for him to contest her will. Walter adjusted his monocle as he strode through the park.  
  
Really, it was a waste to send him out here. He was old. What kind of pleasures could he take in the night? His days of idleness and pleasure seeking were long gone. As the twenty-four hour Hellsing handyman, he did not have much time for a swinging social life. And he was far too miffed at his short notice vacation to focus on seducing a woman that night. He was the jack-of-all-trades, handy-not-quite-dandy Shinigami of Hellsing- how could Sir Integra simply order him off to play? The slight left Walter's ego a bit injured and in a moment up weakness, he wondered if it were possible that he had slipped up in one of his usually impeccable actions.  
  
…Impossible.  
  
Walter continued sulking as he passed by bums and rutting couples. Being an English butler, Walter managed to sulk with dignity- a rare gift.  
  
He'd brought his wires of course. The silver microfilament flashed in his fingers as he drew them out of his pockets.   
  
Someone was following him.  
  
In spite of himself, Walter smiled as he felt the adrenaline building in his limbs. Sir Integra had once asked him if he missed being on the field. Yes, without a doubt, he missed the rush of battle and all of its distinctive perks.  
  
"Your money or your life, old man."  
  
The words of his assailant took a moment to digest. If Walter hadn't been reminded of his dangerous predicament, by the jab of a gun to his spine, he would have laughed out loud. Ridiculous. Simply, positively, ridiculous. He'd expected a vampire or a ghoul, but no, this ignorant, ill bred, fool was attempting to mug him.  
  
"…Is that so?" Walter prepared to slice the offender into slivers of raw meat.  
  
"Have you no shame you Protestant pig?" a deeper voice growled with outrage. Walter raised a brow as he heard a sharp crack followed by a groan and a thud. That voice was far too familiar and far too Scottish for Walter's comfort. He slowly turned, wires prepared, to face the hulking frame of Paladin Alexander Anderson.   
  
Anderson immediately recognized the man from the museum. Hellsing's personal butler if he remembered correctly.  
  
"What a coincidence, Father Anderson; I must thank you for my untimely rescue." Walter's tone was smooth and polished, but Anderson detected a rough edge barely penetrating the composure of the Englishman's words, yet dangerously present all the same.  
  
"If I'd known it was you, I would've left you to your own procedures," Anderson claimed rather sheepishly.   
  
Walter smiled predatorily. "No, I thank you for your kindness. It's not often that people involve themselves in the dilemmas of others, especially at great personal risk."  
  
Anderson snorted.   
  
"But that doesn't explain why you're back in London, Father Anderson. Not seeking a skirmish with a pair of vampires, are you?"  
  
"I destroy evil where I find it," Anderson answered simply, his dark coat billowing in a dry wind.  
  
"A worthy creed," Walter commented, lowering his fingers.  
  
Anderson shrugged and made the sign of the cross. "We are on a mission from God."  
  
Walter chuckled dryly. "Yes, yes we are. Tell me Father Anderson, is there any prime hunting in London?"  
  
The priest concealed his surprise at the question. "No, not really. Hellsing seems to have everything under control, " he admitted begrudgingly.  
  
"Hmm." Walter smiled smugly. "Then you have little else to do besides save silly old men from robbers?"  
  
Anderson's jaw twitched.  
  
"Well then, why don't you join me for a drink, Father Anderson? I can pick up the tab with the money you've saved me," Walter invited, not a little teasingly.   
  
Anderson looked at his amazingly intact watch and scanned the surrounding area for any undead activity: nothing.  
  
"I don't see why not; we'd be improving organizational relations," Anderson grinned, baring his teeth.  
  
Walter refrained from telling Anderson that not killing Hellsing agents would improve diplomatic dealings far better than the two of them sharing beer. It required much self-control.  
  
The pair traveled on foot toward a pub of Walter's acquaintance. It was uncomfortably silent at first, but as Anderson periodically checked Walter's amused expression, he relaxed a little. The priest followed him into the establishment, wary enough to search for treachery and happy enough to find none.  
  
"What would you like?" Walter inquired as he reached the counter.  
  
"A beer."  
  
Walter ordered a beer and a glass of merlot before finding a table placed snugly in the corner, ensuring some privacy.  
  
"Aren't you the household butler?" Anderson asked as he sipped his drink.  
  
"I am."  
  
"Then what are you doing wandering London at night?"  
  
"I was temporarily evicted for a forced holiday." Walter tasted his wine with approval.   
  
"…Not bad for English beer."  
  
"It's imported," Walter answered mildly.  
  
"That explains it," muttered Anderson.   
  
Walter favored him with a wry look. "I suppose you wonder why I've invited you drink with me."  
  
The two men stared at each other as Anderson tried to read Walter's intent. No luck. They did make an odd pair: a proper English butler and a scruffy Scottish priest.   
  
"To talk, maybe warn me against hurting your fellow heretics," Anderson's tone was easygoing though, lacking the usual homicidal zeal.  
  
"Very astute," Walter flashed his teeth in a not quite so proper manner.  
  
"The vampires are my sworn enemies…" Anderson groped for a title.  
  
"Walter, you may call me Walter, Father Anderson."  
  
"…The vampires, FREAKs, etc. are our sworn enemies, as Division XIII and Hellsing. It doesn't escape my notice that the employment of two vampires on Hellsing's staff is somewhat hypocritical."  
  
"It is true that "search and destroy" has ever been Hellsing's motto. However, we are not…mindless killers." Walter paused for effect, the intensity of his gaze focused upon Anderson. "The reason for our actions is to protect mankind. If a said vampire does not engage in activities that prove dangerous to humans, we merely keep it under surveillance. FREAKs are eliminated on sight, but old-fashioned vampires possess the gift of free will. There are exceptions to the case."  
  
"…Very human, Walter, but has it occurred to you that these are dæmons, minions of Hell itself? Products of black magic that answer only to Satan?!" Anderson pounded the table, attracting attention from other customers.   
  
"Perhaps, but there is no need to sacrifice innocent men on a cornered vampire. I have encountered some, who, despite their bloodthirsty nature, prefer a life of solitude with little interaction with humans. A rather ascetic dæmon, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
"Treachery," was all Anderson growled, flashing a glimpse of one of his holy masonry trowels. "Why does Hellsing feel it necessary to recruit vampires to do their dirty work? Those fiends could turn on them at any moment."  
  
Walter took a drink before responding. "The same reason that the Vatican approves the placement of regenerators." Anderson narrowed his eyes. "The average human has no chance against supernatural beings. Other nations hire dhampirs, tribal councils have their shamans, Buddhist employ monks of the esoteric arts, and so forth. It gives us the edge we need to survive."  
  
Anderson snorted again, but could not rationally argue against it. There was a chance that the alcohol had mellowed his mind.  
  
"Besides, Sir Integra isn't so foolish as to utilize what she cannot control. Arucard may be a wildcard, but the Hellsings have held him in their power for quite some time. If anyone loses the reins on Arucard, it will not be her."  
  
"And it is assumed because the other, Seras Victoria, his thrall, that she must also bend to the will of the Hellsings?"  
  
"That, and her nature is a bit more, shall we say, gentler than ours. She clings to her shreds of humanity rather than embrace the darker path of a Nosferatu."  
  
Anderson chugged his beer to prevent very un-priest-like words from escaping his mouth. "Are you trying to convince me of Hellsing's righteousness?"  
  
"…I need not try to convince a templar of anything, Father Anderson. You asked me questions, and I answered them."  
  
Anderson relaxed a little.   
  
"Would you like more beer?" Walter asked, eyeing their empty glasses.   
  
Anderson found himself indeed wanting more. "Yes, please."  
  
Walter went to retrieve more beverages.   
  
The priest found himself slightly bewildered at the actions of the butler. Walter smiled quite congenially as he handed Anderson his frothing mug.  
  
"There seems to be one major issue left to discuss," Walter said pleasantly.   
  
Anderson opened his mouth to inquire, but suddenly found himself immobile-wrapped in a net of silvery thread.  
  
"Don't move, Father," Walter ordered quietly. "I'd prefer not to decapitate you in this pub."  
  
Anderson clenched his teeth at being caught off guard so easily. "Perfidious heretic…"  
  
Walter smiled thinly. "I recall a recent incident where you violated a treaty and attacked Hellsing knights. Now, to be honest, my primary concern is not the safety of the foot soldiers, but rather the well-being of Sir Integra." He spoke quickly and firmly, a dangerous slight shining in his eyes. "Therefore you must understand that I was most displeased to learn of your assault on her person. Thought I'd prefer you leave them be, the issue of the vampires is quite understandable and ever excusable so long as you do no permanent damage. In threatening the safety of Sire Integra, Father Anderson, you crossed a line. I will not tolerate any malice directed toward her person; do you understand me?" Walter paused, his words clipped and dangerous. "I have not served the Hellsings and watched over Sir Integra for all twenty-three years of her life simply to see her slain by some rampaging Vatican dog-do you understand me, Father Anderson? You may be a regenerator, but I can shred you and destroy your remains with no hope of restoration if you ever cause her any harm; do I make myself clear, Father Alexander Anderson?"  
  
Anderson gazed up at the butler, partially curious, partially impressed with the force behind Walter's words. He was not called Shinigami for naught, he supposed. Strangely, Anderson was not the least bit upset by this Englishman threatening his mortality. Oh, he believed Walter was more than capable of discerning a weakness and capitalizing upon it, but there was a certain temperate dignity that defined Walter, and Anderson respected it. The message was simple, and went in synchronization with Father Maxwell's orders: No harm should come to Sir Integra Wingates Hellsing by the hand of Paladin Alexander Anderson.  
  
"I have little interest in harming your precious Sir Integra," Anderson began. "But if I should ever encounter her again, I believe I can control my rage enough to ensure her safety."  
  
Walter studied him for a moment, wondering if it would not be simpler to just tear the paladin apart and take care of the remains. No, he could not move like he used to and it was getting late. Father Anderson seemed sincere enough. Walter recalled his wires without leaving a scratch on Anderson.  
  
"That is most satisfactory, Father Anderson. You have eased an old man's heart. I thank you."  
  
Anderson raised his beer with charming nonchalance. "No, thank you."  
  
"I really should be getting home."  
  
"Someone needs to feed the pets, eh?"  
  
Both men laughed.  
  
"Something like that, but I've truly enjoyed the pleasure of your company. Will you be in London much longer?"  
  
"A few days more, perhaps."  
  
"Ah, well, if I have a spare moment, I'll have to look you up. Of course you cannot come to the mansion, but this is as good a place as any. Besides, I have a few questions of my own," Walter ended pleasantly as he stood.  
  
"…Yes, I found tonight's discussion enlightening. We should indulge again."   
  
The men basked in a moment of uncharacteristic mutual admiration before Walter politely turned to go. He responsibly paid the bill and left Anderson to his own devices.  
  
Undoubtedly, he reflected. Sir Integra had ordered him to take a relaxing evening. Two glasses of wine and another guarantee of her safety made him very mellow indeed. Who would have thought he could have had such an agreeable time with a Scottish and Catholic sod? Yes, and despite his lady's commands, it had still been a rather productive evening.   
  
  
  
Review? Yes? Yes? Please? 


	2. Going Out Again

It's me again. I've resurrected my muse through unholy means and am enjoying it greatly. Toodles.  
  
"How was your evening?" Integra lit a cigar before leaning back in her chair.  
  
Walter smiled with genuine satisfaction. He was quite pleased with the prior night's accomplishments. It was an immense ego boost to know that he still had the touch. "I had a nice time."  
  
Integra shot him a triumphant look. "You see Walter, it wasn't all that bad. You really should get out more." She flipped through some paperwork, somewhat ignorant of the irony of her words. She looked up at Walter lazily. "Yes Walter, I really did just suggest that you should make a habit of going out more."  
  
Walter sighed and a bothersome little thought surfaced. Anderson might be in town for a little longer. If he dealt with the priest again, who knew what positive results he might gain? Well, and the small fact that he'd reacquired the taste for the naughty little joy of drinking.  
  
"Well…then how does tonight sound, Sir Integra? We have no urgent scheduled affairs."  
  
Integra almost dropped her cigar. A slow grin of realization spread across her face. It was kind of scary… "Why Walter, did you meet someone interesting last night?" she inquired in a sugary tone.  
  
Walter gulped down his discomfort very adroitly. "One could say that," Father Anderson was indeed, very fascinating, just not in the way Sir Integra was implying. The butler backed up a little, trying not to think about the thoughts running through Sir Integra's head. That was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.  
  
"Really Walter, is this someone you'd like to bring home?" Integra smirked, taking much pleasure from teasing her butler. How often did one get to grill their parent-figure over his dating preferences.   
  
"No," Walter said a little too quickly. He hung his head, not in shame, as Sir Integra might have imagined. No, he was desperately trying to conceal the fit of hysterical laughter that threatened to erupt from his chest.  
  
"Shame on you!" Integra scolded, laughing. "Really Walter, I can only envision you when you were young, you rogue!"  
  
"Oh he was quite the lady-killer," another voice interrupted. As if things couldn't get worse, that thrice-damned Arucard appeared. A true Cheshire grin was plastered to his undead features. "Yes, special agent Walter Cumm Ddolneazz, you should have seen his little black book. There never was an evening when he was without female-"  
  
"Now Arucard, that is terribly ungentlemanly of you, revealing a man's secrets and slips of youth before a lady. Careful, I might have to recount some of your adventures as well…" Walter amazingly managed to keep his composure as they prepared to thoroughly roast him.  
  
Integra raised a brow and looked back at Arucard who had suddenly become very quiet. "Oh really, Arucard?" Her voice held a dangerously inquisitive note.  
  
"Yes master?" He responded dryly.  
  
There was a long period of agonizing silence as the two men squirmed beneath Integra's gaze.  
  
"Well then, the library really need to be aired out," Walter began.  
  
"And the police girl probably needs saving…" Arucard finished.  
  
"Go one, get out of here!" Sir Integra growled, a wicked grin forming on her face. She didn't have the time to expend on interrogating them. Oh, she would find out eventually…  
  
Both men retreated, Walter through the door; Arucard through the floor.  
  
Walter sighed in relief as he shut the thick double oak doors behind him. Sometimes Sir Integra could be so…unsettling. That damned Nosferatu had taught her too well. He inwardly blanched as he turned to find himself nose to nose with that specific, aforementioned, damned, Nosferatu.   
  
"Really Shinigami, I was simply jesting. No need to reveal my skeletons…"  
  
"You have so many," the Englishman responded wryly. "How could I hope to encompass them all?"  
  
"Oh," Arucard lowered his glasses a bit so he could look Walter in the eye. "But you know just enough to be dangerous." He tilted his head back and waited for Walter's next move.  
  
Walter shrugged innocently. "Quid pro quo, Sir Arucard. You don't mention my indulgences, I don't tell about yours."   
  
Arucard shook his head. "Really, I was jesting. No need to be so defensive; a smooth operator such as yourself would be bound to leave behind a trail of trysts, broken hearts, and even a few whelps, here and there."  
  
"…Better babies than corpses," Walter said offhand. "Besides, I was always fairly cautious."  
  
Arucard laughed. "Yes, those were the days, Shinigami. A war raged on, with an abundance of blood, the charm of desperate fatalism, and a lifestyle that I have been denied for over forty years. It was a splendid time. You were young…I fed on live food daily…life, or unlife, was good."  
  
Walter stared.  
  
Arucard continued, a suspicious lilt in his voice that led the Englishman to believe that the vampire was not joking. "Yes, those were fine days, Shinigami. We should get together some time. Discuss and reminisce the days of your youth."   
  
Walter stared some more.  
  
"We'll go drinking, Shinigami, to see if you can still hold ungodly amounts of liquor." Or to see if his senility was kicking in.   
  
Walter opened his mouth, but Arucard roughly clapped his hand on Walter's shoulder.   
  
"Don't overexert yourself, Shinigami," Arucard smirked maliciously as he faded out.   
  
Walter stood there, unsure which earlier occurrence was more disturbing. Arucard verbalizing nostalgia? Sir Integra inquiring about his sex life?  
  
Walter wiped his brow. Yes, he'd definitely go out tonight. He really needed another drink.  
  
Anderson sharpened his trowels idly. Mindless. It was a task bereft of any conscious thought; so the priest drifted in and out of la la land. The night before had been exceptionally extraordinary. That butler was truly a character. Maybe he could get some useful data out of the man.  
  
Unlikely. The man, Walter, was far too cunning to slip up.  
  
Anderson sighed. OK, maybe he could be honest with himself. He enjoyed good company. Life was lonely and Enrico Maxwell was a lousy drinking buddy. Dumb arse, bless his soul. That paper pushing priest could never hope to outdrink a regenerator.   
  
Anderson scowled and rubbed the blade against the whetstone harder. Being a paladin, especially a berserking lone operative, was incredibly lonely. He had no common interests with the other fathers of his parish. Yes, you heard a heinous confession today, if you think that's something, last night, I impaled a zombie on a flagpole. And the children, as much as he loved them, there was no way to communicate the anxieties of his lifestyle to children. The other Iscariots thought he was bloody bonkers- not far from the truth, but they had no room to talk. None whatsoever.  
  
As much as he hated to admit it, yes, he needed some serious downtime. He hadn't taken a breather in ages. Anderson began looking around for his cell phone. As he placed the trowels on the bed, he noted the needle-thin slivers that remained. Perhaps he really did have some anger issues?  
  
Blasphemy.  
  
Walter pulled on his overcoat and straightened his collar. No spiffy uniform tonight. He'd managed to look like a classy rogue in a white button down shirt and black pants. OK, no spiffy vest.   
  
Still, he was dressed down and Seras Victoria gave him a funny look as she came up the stairs.  
  
"Going out again, Walter?" she asked, not a little surprised.  
  
"Why yes, Sir Integra thinks it necessary for me to find occasional recreation."  
  
"She's right, you work to hard. Have a nice time, Walter," Seras said cheerfully.   
  
Walter nodded politely as he left for the garage.  
  
Why did everyone have to act so surprised?  
  
More to come. God help us. Every one. 


	3. When in Rome

…It was very late when I wrote this. I think I went from mildly humorous to flat out…OOC bizarre. Umm, again, wow…this is interesting. I love Walter and Father Anderson so yea, they've gone drinking together. Don't try this at home kids.   
  
Hellsing does not belong to me. Yet.  
  
Servant's Night Off  
  
Being inebriated had its pros and cons. They were all subjective, mind you. Whether or not you liked the constant shift of angles, the dreamy bleariness, and the generally altered state of mind, probably had an effect on how often you got crocked. Of course, that was just a theory, and should not be taken too seriously.  
  
Walter wondered if he would be able to drive home tonight. Well, being drunk had no effect on his driving. Maybe some local landmarks would suffer mysterious auto-collision damage, but Walter's driving was immaculately precise; he meant to do that.  
  
For a split second, Walter had been distracted by the idea of getting piss drunk. No, there was business to take care of, and then he could get piss drunk. Father Anderson might make an interesting designated driver. That would involve Anderson taking him to the mansion, and even driving his car, but…  
  
Walter shook his head. What the bloody devil was wrong with him?! All this free time must be eroding his self-discipline. It was business, really, all business.  
  
Liar.  
  
With that thought, he ran a traffic light. Luckily, no police officers were around, because in the mood he was in, he would have led them on a high-speed chase throughout London. He'd always had fantasies about that sort of thing…wait a minute, hadn't he done that in Rome once?   
  
Really, his mind was just shot because of his discourse with Arucard. If anything managed to unsettle him, it was the idea of that Nosferatu courting Sir Integra. That vampire fancied her to be his potential mate. Combining their ambiguous history and Arucard's desire to conceal his dirty little deeds of days past, Walter thought that to still be the vampire's intent. Sir Integra didn't believe him, of course, but…Oh hell, that was a thought he'd been trying to suppress. It wasn't so much the idea of Sir Integra having a relationship with a vampire, or even the idea of a dhampir taking over the Hellsing Organization. He was open-minded enough to understand the benefits of a know-your-enemy-intimately relationship, and he had confidence that Sir Integra could handle Arucard, and that Arucard respected Sir Integra enough to behave…somewhat. Yes, even the perturbing prospective of mutual affection could be dealt with. No, it was the idea of the courtship process that would ensue. Provided Sir Integra even gave him the grounds to attempt such a thing, Arucard would pursue her relentlessly. All the responsibility of dealing with the screams, property damage, and hurt feelings would be relegated to him. And maybe Seras. But anyway, from issues such as dining out to Sir Integra filling Arucard, and the surrounding areas, with bullets, would be simply too much for an old man like himself.  
  
Why the bloody devil was he dwelling on this? Why? During his stay with the Hellsings, had he become some sort of mental masochist? Walter wasn't quite sure.  
  
He pulled into a parking space at the bar from last night, the Hoary Bullock. That name gave him a good chuckle. He wondered if Father Anderson would be there tonight. Perhaps in his line of duty he faced similarly disturbing matters. Now the possibility of replicating said romantic dilemma was exceedingly improbable. Still, Anderson might cope with equally disquieting circumstances and it was possible that tales from the Catholic priest would be just as bizarre.  
  
Anderson drained his third screwdriver and wondered if the butler would show. Probably not. He groaned and debated on what else to drink. Bailey's Irish Crème sounded tasty, but it was painfully…Irish. Perhaps some straight up vodka would do the job. If he had no companionship, why not get tanked? There was no other comparable vice that the Catholic church condoned.   
  
  
  
Walter strode in, and to his surprise, caught sight of the priest hunched over a glass. Anderson did not acknowledge him, so Walter ordered a Scotch. Taking his whiskey, he sat down across from the other man.  
  
"Good evening, Father Anderson."  
  
Anderson looked up at him with a frown. "Drinking heavier tonight, are you?"  
  
Walter shrugged. "Long day. What about yourself?"  
  
"Bored." Anderson gritted his teeth and took another drink. "Do you know how much alcohol it takes to get me drunk?"  
  
"No…"  
  
"A bloody lot. A disadvantage of being a regenerator. " Anderson downed his drink and sighed. "So what happened? Did they ask you about last night?"  
  
"Quite a bit. They assumed I'd made a lady friend." Walter gulped down the shot and sighed. "That would be you."  
  
To his credit, Anderson didn't choke on his next drink. "…Explain?"  
  
"They inquired if I encountered anyone "interesting." Well if you're not interesting, I don't know what is. Unfortunately, their minds are filthy and they assume I'm having some sort of romantic hobnob."  
  
The priest laughed and leaned back. "I've been touring London. No joy really, it's an ugly city. Too much fog, too many Protestants. No offense."  
  
"None taken."  
  
"And the food," Anderson continued on his rant. "English food is revolting, it's almost as bad as Polish food."   
  
Walter nodded sympathetically.  
  
"What I wouldn't do for some haggis…"  
  
Walter blanched outwardly.  
  
Anderson must have seen his expression. "Really Englishman, can't you handle a little soul food?"  
  
"Sheep guts just don't appeal to me, my apologies." Walter looked around, deciding he needed another drink.  
  
"You've just never had them cooked properly. I make a mean lot of haggis, Walter."   
  
Walter didn't hear him. He was busy getting a second drink. When he returned, Anderson commenced speaking, again.  
  
"So, why are we doing this, Walter?"  
  
"Doing what?"  
  
"Sitting here gossiping like friends."  
  
"Nothing better to do, I suppose." Walter watched Anderson grimly. "Maybe rant about the habits of the undead?" he suggested.  
  
"…Don't get me started."  
  
Walter concurred. "What about the absurdity of life? Yours, mine, anyone's?"  
  
Anderson raised a brow. "I'm a homicidal priest. It doesn't get much more absurd. Oh, yea, I can't die, well, not easily. I have no close friends, no lovers, obviously, I'm a bloody priest, and I'm drinking with an English Protestant at the Hoary Bullock? What kind of name is that?"  
  
"…Yes, I know. It's been awhile since I've seen some action myself, I'm starting to feel like a bloody priest, no offense."  
  
"None taken." Anderson massaged his temples.  
  
"So."  
  
"So?"   
  
"So, you're miserable and lonely?" Walter worded his thoughts carefully. Was Anderson confessing that all he needed was love?   
  
"No," Anderson snorted vehemently. "…not miserable, a lad does get a bit lonely at times."   
  
"Lack of satisfaction, eh? You do such a superb job, and yet, even though you know everyone values your service, you still feel under appreciated." Walter stirred his piña colada with a little umbrella.   
  
"Exactly," Anderson muttered. "I know I'm wracking up points upstairs, but somehow, this isn't all it's cracked up to be."  
  
Walter opened and closed the tiki umbrella.   
  
"Where'd you get that?" Anderson inquired.  
  
"Piña colada."   
  
"OK."  
  
A few minutes later, Anderson had his own little umbrella. "These are nice."  
  
"I agree. Such a novelty."  
  
There was a moment of silence and both men slowly put down the mini-umbrellas.   
  
"What the Hell are we doing?"  
  
"Making bloody idiots of ourselves while we get pissed." Walter went with the flow and took swallowed some of the smooth sweet drink.   
  
Anderson agreed.   
  
  
  
"So, what's wrong with you?"  
  
"Overworked and underpaid," Walter laughed.   
  
"Really?"  
  
"No." Walter grinned as he adjusted his monocle. "Just trying to escape some of the chaos at the mansion."  
  
"Really? What's it like?"  
  
"Bedlam. We even have straightjackets," Walter said, thinking back on some of Arucard's physical restraints.  
  
"Do you use the straightjackets?"  
  
"No, but we have them."  
  
"Hn." Anderson scratched his neck and noted the large quantity of stubble. He needed to shave. Though doing so with one of his blessed blades had proven to be a bad decision. "Tell me, do the vampires have some sort of silly romance going on?"  
  
Walter winced. "No."  
  
"What about Arucard and Sir Integra?" Anderson looked mildly interested in the subject, though he was eyeing his tiki umbrella once more.  
  
"Ambiguous. He pursues her, though I'm not sure how seriously; she shoots him several times in the head."  
  
"It's love," Anderson commented knowingly, twirling the umbrella.   
  
"I was afraid of that." Finally a waitress came along, cleared the table, and brought more drinks.   
  
"Damn vampires. I don't like them."  
  
Walter refrained from telling Father Anderson that he didn't seem to like anybody.   
  
"I especially don't like that one."  
  
Walter snorted.  
  
"What about the redhead? Seras Victoria? What's her deal?"  
  
"She's single still; half the human agents still wouldn't mind dating her, despite all the risks. That Pip Bernadotte seems to have the best chance."  
  
"The leader of the Wild Geese?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What kind of name is Wild Geese?" Anderson shook his head. "What kind of fool man falls for a blood-sucking siren."  
  
"Many, just not in the literal sense."  
  
"You're right," sighed the templar. "I suppose you'd like to know about my coworkers," he suggested, changing the subject.  
  
"Sounds interesting."  
  
"I usually work solo. You've met Father Enrico Maxwell."  
  
"Briefly."  
  
"A good man, though slightly off-kilter." Anderson made a circle by his ear using his index finger, ignoring the irony of that statement. "He doesn't do field work so he really has no idea about how much trauma we undergo. He tries, really, but he doesn't get it." He shook his head sadly.   
  
"That's a bad quality in a commander."  
  
"It's workable."  
  
"And there's Heinkel and Yumiko; they're Division XIII special ops as well. No supernatural gifts, but they're effective, usually dealing with terrorist situations and the sort. It took me awhile to figure out that Heinkel was a woman. She dresses like man and does nothing remotely feminine. Well, she's a killer nun, whatever floats her boat."  
  
Walter nodded, trying to remember all this for strategic purposes, but the amount of alcohol he had ingested was making it extraordinarily difficult.  
  
"And Yumiko, she's the sweetest lass you'd ever hope to meet. Pretty, polite, a little shy…but she's got two people in her head. Yumiko and Yumie. Yumie…that lass is insane. Good with a katana, but glory, she's zealous."  
  
"Favor any of these ladies?" Walter asked indolently.  
  
"…Yumiko's a cute. But with our vicious alter egos…I dunno. Heinkel has a better temperament to deal with me. She's not hard on the eyes either. And speaking of women with manly tastes in clothing, your Integra isn't half bad. Hell…even that Seras Victoria is attractive. I'm drunk, aren't I?"  
  
Walter nodded. "Yes, she's a good-looking girl. I suppose if I were at least thirty years younger…"   
  
Anderson chuckled. "I hope no one ever finds out about these conversations."  
  
"Me too," Walter decided.  
  
"…What's it like, living with vampires?"  
  
"No worse than living with people. They're tastes are obviously more specialized, but we have a good supply of medical blood. Seras Victoria is still trying to eat human food though. I've caught her sneaking my Neapolitan ice cream."   
  
"I like ice cream," Anderson said. "But if I eat it too fast, I get a headache."  
  
Walter raised a brow and watched Anderson fiddle with his glasses.   
  
"Do you know how many pairs of glasses I've gone through?"  
  
Walter shook his head.  
  
"Neither do I, but a damn lot."   
  
"Consider contacts?"  
  
"I have this thing about putting things in my eyes."  
  
"Oh."   
  
Walter looked at his watch. It was getting rather late. Still, he wasn't as drunk as he could be, so he chose to stay a little longer.   
  
"How do those work, those wires? They're pretty nifty."  
  
"I just release these latches…" Walter's movements were unsteady and he loosed a coil, sending a razor wire whizzing past Anderson's ear. "They're specially wound and propelled for optimum slinging."  
  
"Ever get in any embarrassing situations with them, you know, when you first began?"  
  
"Yes. Trapped myself in a garage for three days, once." The Englishman groaned at the memory. "Fortunately someone came along with a pair of wire cutters and…"  
  
Anderson guffawed. "Once, while shaving with one of me masonry trowels, I cut my throat. Got blood all over everything- I'd just showered too." He neglected to mention that it had happened that day.  
  
Walter snorted. Now that was just idiotic.  
  
"Do you understand this video game business? You know, all these kids letting their minds rot before a stream of moving pictures? All the boys the orphanage are always babbling about some Playstation or X-Box rot. I vaguely remember some Nintendo and Atari…but this stuff is all new to me."  
  
Walter, surprisingly, knew quite a bit about video games. They'd once had to deal with an electronic dæmon, a literal ghost in the machine, if you will. Yes, he'd done quite a bit of research, updating his archives on modern technology. In the process of that he'd discovered something utterly sinful and quite enjoyable. Video games. It was a secret vice, and he rarely partook, but he'd went out and bought a Playstation. Walter was addicted to Tetris…Frogger had been fun, but Tetris was his crowning sin. Sometimes, when the Wild Geese were really drunk and had a console set up, he'd go play Dance Dance Revolution. He wasn't bad, for an old fart, but some of those moves left him sore.  
  
"…I have no idea," he lied rather guiltily. "There's a puzzle game called Tetris that I understand, but the overall activity doesn't seem to have any redeeming qualities."  
  
"I thought so," Anderson said pensively. "I've heard of this one where you jump around on some sort of pad, but I didn't quite comprehend the point." Anderson shrugged "Kids today."  
  
Walter picked up his little umbrella. Well, now he had two of them. One for each hand. He spun them. "How's it feel, to regenerate something?"  
  
"Hurts like Hell. It doesn't hurt when in battle, but when I get off the adrenaline rush, it really smarts."  
  
"Hmm…" Serious thoughts and reminders of duty abruptly began swirling around Walter's head. He really needed to get stone cold sober. Yet the warmth and pleasure of intoxication was so inviting…  
  
Anderson was glad Walter was there. Walter was his name, right? It was such a luxury to have someone to talk to about the strange things that occurred frequently in his charmed life. He was glad it was someone who wouldn't say, "Dude, you really need to get laid." That did not help matters in the least. With this Hellsing member, he could complain about Division XIII and get some understanding of what he was talking about. Yes, it was nice. Nice and warm and smashed…and…how much had he had to drink? Anderson couldn't remember. Well, it wasn't important. He clumsily pocketed his drink umbrella. What a neat little knick-knack.  
  
"So…I had a nice time. You know, if I can get off tomorrow, we can "hang out" some more, what do you say?" Walter asked as he readied his determination to leave.  
  
"Sure, sounds like a date to me," Anderson grinned wickedly.  
  
"Not funny. I'm not that desperate or even that drunk," Walter growled, wobbling as he stood. "Need a ride?"   
  
"I'm not that desperate or that stupid," Anderson retorted.  
  
"Suit yourself. Good night, mad monk."  
  
"Good night yourself, ye blimey English goat."  
  
Walter chuckled and staggered out, miraculously managing to get into his car without falling.   
  
Anderson sat in the booth slumped over. That had been fun. He began to doze and was eventually awakened by the waitress.  
  
"Umm…father, we're closing now."  
  
Anderson grunted and stretched. He could get back to the hotel. No problem. "Bless you my child," he told the woman with a straight face as he stumbled out.  
  
Walter had taken the long way. He was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to drive through the grass, but decided that sidewalks were there for a reason. He just wasn't exactly sure what that reason was.  
  
Eventually, after ramming a few fire hydrants and massacring a few dozen street lights, Walter made it home relatively intact.  
  
One of the watchmen insisted on parking the dented vehicle for him. Walter finally acquiesced, somewhat puzzled by the presence of valet parking. Another helped him into the mansion.   
  
Fortunately, no one had waited up for him, and he made it back to his bedroom before collapsing on his bed.  
  
The next morning, or more specifically, afternoon, Walter awoke to some idiot opening his bloody curtains. He resisted the urge to decapitate them and settled for glaring up at them.   
  
It was that damned Arucard. The vampire stood in the shadows holding the cord to the drapes. That bastard… He had a positively evil smile on his face. "Good afternoon, Shinigami, I trust you had a nice night," he said altogether too cheerfully.   
  
Walter groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. That vampire really was a minion of Satan.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Please review? It'd be nice. Let me know what you think. Be more specific than "OMG U R a crazy bitch and deserve to be shot!" I know that already. Oh, yea, more to come. 


	4. That Nasty Little Interval of Sobriety A...

Umm, yea. I'm a lazy slacker. But thank you for all the reviews. The spellcheck one was quite entertaining. Surreptitious, but admirable, nonetheless. And I do know something about Millennium, damnit! Just not enough to write about it...Umm, as for the OOC comment...did you read chapter 3? It's definitely OOC madness. Madness, yes, that is what this is.  
Umm, I didn't originally intend for it to be this silly, however, it turned out this way. One day I will edit it and dampen the severe change in style, but yea...not today. Short chapter, rather mindless. I'm still trying to figure out what Walter does in his spare time. He's just too cool to vacuum, dust, mop, scrub...all that stuff I have to do. He has to do it better, faster, and all that. Yet, you think Integra would hire some maids too. I have no idea what I'm babbling about...  
I think I know where this is going. Well, besides straight to Hell. I hope to finish it soon. Thank you for humoring me.  
  
Disclaimer: Hellsing does not belong to me. This is what would happen if it did. Be glad that there is a God and He doesn't want me controlling vampires, international secret agencies, and whatnot.  
  
Servant's Night Off  
  
In the event of an emergency, Walter would have been screwed. Luckily, the recent trend of unusual serenity was sticking, and after he had exorcised that accursed Hellspawn, usually Arucard, from his room, he went back to bed. Hangovers were such a...such a...Walter searched his vocabulary for an appropriate metaphor.  
Hangovers were such a bitch. He twitched a bit at this vulgarity. Perhaps he really was too old for this kind of nonsense.  
  
Integra was slightly concerned about her butler. The fact he'd come home drunk was a little surprising. The fact his car was beaten up was even more surprising. In light of all this, the police reports of some sort of vehicular madness coinciding with Walter's approximated time of arrival, were not surprising.  
Simple enough.  
Fortunately, there were no concrete links between Walter and the damage of public property. So Integra tossed the papers into the circular file. It really wasn't her concern.  
  
Arucard returned to his coffin, feeling rather pleased with himself. It had been an eon since he had managed to elicit such a delightful reaction from Walter. There was some spunk left in the old man after all. Arucard grinned and pulled his hat over his eyes. He wouldn't mind joining the old codger for a drink.  
  
Anderson awoke in a rather dazed mood. He did not get hangovers, however he did manage to get himself into trouble while in a state of inebriation. Waking up in a dank alley, reeking of pepper spray and covered with kitty cats was an excellent example. Anderson groaned as he came to, a little stiff from the strange position he'd fallen asleep in. Two orange fluffy flea-bitten felines were nestled against his chest.  
He sneezed.  
The furballs purred loudly. Anderson yawned and stretched, toppling a series of garbage cans. The cats both startled and leapt up hissing. Neither one was declawed. Anderson yowled as they dug their talons into his flesh.  
"Bloody beastly little bastards!"  
Hearing his shriek of anguish they returned to their former contented state and rubbed against his s he flailed. Anderson finally pried them off of him, along with bloody chunks of himself. He tossed both of them out of the alley. Scowling, he picked himself up and sniffed.  
He was positively rank. And something smelled...strong.  
Anderson vaguely recalled a panicking woman.  
"Ma'am, I assure you I am..."  
"Aaaiiiiiiiiieeeeeeee!!!!"  
And a burst of Anderson-trying-to-claw-his-bloody-eyeballs-out ensued.  
He nodded blearily and decided to go back to the hotel for a shower.  
  
Walter dreaded facing Sir Integra. Especially after last night. He'd never hear the end of this. Not till he died. Hell, not with all these "mistakes of the past" being dragged to the surface. The only one around who knew of his former activities was Arucard. And it was far too much to hope that that shrewd son of a bitch could forget. Maybe he could be sealed in the basement again...Walter wondered. He, himself, had been rather comfortable for those twenty years.  
He sighed wistfully as he readied Sir Integra's afternoon tea. Those were the days...  
Integra raised a brow as she heard Walter knock. He must have had one Hell of a time last night. She put down her pen, straightened her glasses, and prepared to grill him.  
"Come in," she called sweetly.  
Walter wheeled in the tea tray, covered with platters of cakes and cookies. He'd thrown in extra snacks in hopes they would distract Integra from asking too many questions.  
"Good afternoon, Sir Integra. I trust your day has been agreeable." Walter poured the tea, avoiding her gaze.  
"Good afternoon, Walter. How was your evening?" She asked, somewhat sadistically.  
"Good. Wonderful. I had an excellent time." He hoped that he was not visibly sweating. He ardently longed to be somewhere else.  
"I see." She smiled knowingly, and took her tea. "Your car seems to be in a state of disrepair. I'll have some of the men take care of it."  
Walter flinched.  
"Yes, there really are some careless drivers on the road. Irresponsible drunks and such." Integra's grin widened.  
"Kids today," he responded dryly.  
"Yes, big kids. Next time you go out, why don't you take a companion, as a precaution? Someone like Arucard. I'm sure he would delight in such a raucous affair."  
Integra dismissed him as she picked up her paper. A blurb on the side read, "Catholic Priest Attempts Assault on Woman." She shook her head. What the bloody Hell was wrong with those people?  
  
Anderson succeeded in dragging himself out of the shower, only after he'd run out of hot water. Infernal English and their tepid lifestyles. He changed into clean robes and debated on whether or not he should ever leave Rome again.  
Well, there were not many vampires in Rome. He took a deep breath and opened the door. He was not going to develop agoraphobia. It was time for breakfast...err, lunch...err, food.  
As he stepped out into the glaring sunlight, two orange blurs dashed by him. He turned to see two very familiar ginger cats sitting in his room.  
He'd heard all the stories of cats and witchcraft, but he had never believed them. Reaching for his knives he muttered a few prayers. One of the cute little bastards began to purr, and to his chagrin, Anderson realized that they were not Hellbent cuddle-bugs of the supernatural.  
God must be punishing him. That was the only solution. Anderson fingered the rosary in his pocket. Penance was not supposed to be pleasant. Penance was not supposed to be pleasant. Penance was...flagellation would be so much more convenient. He quickly halted that tangent of thought.  
Some people might like penance.  
He glowered menacingly at the two animals on his borrowed bed. "Out. Get out!" They looked up at him sleepily and yawned, before settling back down in the unmade blankets.  
He was no St. Frances, but he decided it would be easier to deal with them after breakfast...lunch...food.  
  
Arucard loomed over Walter like some famished ghoul awaiting a crunchable meal. He was a profoundly effective memento mori; exactly not what the butler needed at the moment.  
"So, care to share the gory details?" Arucard asked gleefully.  
Walter dusted in silence.  
"You can tell me, Shinigami; I'll tell you how many humans I've chomped since Sir Integra came to power."  
"Twenty-four."  
Arucard paused to tally the quantity. "You're right," he chuckled. "Could never put one passed a Shinigami, eh?"  
Walter gritted his teeth and ran the ostrich feathers over the delicate porcelain.  
"Why do you bother with that- you did it yesterday."  
The Englishman paused. Ever since Sir Integra had hired that slew of tittering maids, he had fewer duties of any importance. He supposed that she thought she was doing him a favor. He sighed and decided to ignore her undead pet. With a dramatic flick of the wrist, he eradicated a swarm of imaginary dust bunnies.  
Arucard grinned, playful malevolence oozing from his pores.  
Two could play that game.  
  
For the rest of the day, Arucard trailed closely behind Walter. Hugging his shadow, darkening his doorstep, reading over his shoulder... The butler bore it with considerable fortitude. That is to say, he only decapitated Arucard, once. The reason for that being, cleaning up the gore was a very involved process, and mopping up the guts while their owner loitered next to one, daintily sipping a packet of blood was, well...far too bizarre.  
  
Seras had heard her master laughing wildly within the mansion. She jumped into action, snagging her Halconnen and equipped for any sort of paranormal assault that might have decided to rear its ugly head. Instead, she found him with Walter, the enduring butler cleaning up some sort of gore. She elected to retreat rather than even bothering with those itching questions like, "What the fuck is going on?!" Those always led to trouble. The status quo was something she simply pushed from her mind.  
Ice cream sounded good.  
  
Anderson hunched over, crowding his little booth at some bloody English diner. He scowled grimly at the menu, wondering if eating some of the fare would be against his religion. It really was not trustworthy. He chose flapjacks, bacon, and eggs; hoping against reality that they would be safer. Not as wise as cold cereal, but who wanted something cold for breakfast?  
The waitress, an amazingly pointy woman with an incredibly irritable voice, showed up, looking very displeased at his presence.  
"Ready to order yet?" She chewed her gum loudly, smacking her lips together. Anderson stiffened.  
"Yes, I'd like your breakfast...lunch..."  
"It's brunch," she said curtly.  
"Yes," Anderson cracked his neck and began speaking again. "I'd like an order of flapjacks, bacon, eggs, and if you would bring me that coffee I asked for twenty minutes ago..."  
"Fine," she snapped. She flounced off, in the ungraceful fashion that most commoners possessed, leaving Anderson to contemplate the reason why he was the only customer.  
  
45 minutes later...  
  
Anderson eyed the platter in front of him. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, all accounted for. All doused and wallowing in a thick puddle of grease. He forced himself to raise his hands and thank the Almighty Lord for his...bounty. Cutting himself some food, he reflected on his past. He'd had a good life, hadn't he? He painstakingly raised the fork to his mouth and pushed in a morsel.  
Well, it wasn't awful.  
It wasn't like mum's, but it wasn't bad. He wondered, absently, how his regenerative abilities would react to a heart attack, or if his arteries would unclog themselves.  
"Life is utterly absurd," he reflected after dripping his pancakes in a little more grease.  
He's right, you know.  
  
Umm...not my best, but I needed to establish a few possibilities before going on to additional...lunacy. 


	5. All Good Things Must Come to an End

So sorry! Haven't updated in ages!!! I was so busy...  
  
All right, now I have time to talk... Well, here' s the thrilling conclusion. Typed up in two hours of mindless school time. In fact, I had to add the author's note after the bell rang. Needless to say, it was short. So, I'm just back, explaining this is pretty fresh...Hell, I'm about to read it for the first time... Wish me luck. Hellsing does not belong to me. Absinthe is a liquor outlawed in the US because it has hallucinogenic qualities. It's made from wormwood. I really have to go...  
  
Enjoy!  
  
Servant's Night Off  
  
Food poisoning was always a possibility. Anderson shrugged, leaving that said possibility to his metabolism. He took a taxi back to the hotel, listening to the cabby raving about aliens, conspiracies, and the deviant behavior of Catholic priests. He did not tip the man. Stupid prat.  
  
Anderson opened the door, and the bed looked so inviting. Still, unmade- lousy room service, but incredibly alluring nonetheless. Even the marmalade kitties that were sleeping on his side of the bed were not that offensive. Neither were the hairballs on the carpet. He was really tired.  
  
"Shove off," he growled, pushing them aside. They yawned and growled, but gave him enough space to collapse.  
  
Poke.  
  
Poke.  
  
Poke.  
  
Fwip.  
  
Fwip.  
  
Fwip.  
  
Anderson lay in bed, his vision fading in and out. He held his hands above him, working them slowly, as if the sensations were alien. Between the fingers of his left hand, he pinched a flattened tiki drink umbrella.  
  
One of the cats purred loudly in his ear. Another rested on his chest.  
  
He opened the umbrella.  
  
He closed the umbrella.  
  
Open.  
  
Close.  
  
Open.  
  
Close.  
  
Repeat.  
  
You get the picture; Anderson was having quite an exciting afternoon. Something was going to have to change.  
  
Integra sat at her desk, heavily focused on the mounting plethora of "important" papers that she had to review. How many of these bloody issues could be deemed significant enough to bind her to this desk. Stack after stack; whoever was sending these to her must be getting carpal tunnel syndrome by now. She bit her cigar as her eyes fell on the term "appropriate action," again.  
  
Damn, she wanted to show them "appropriate action."  
  
Walter had shut himself in his room. For all the good that would do.  
  
Arucard had simply chosen to become unbearable. He had times like these- phases of mild insanity...well, mild increases of insanity. That was not much in the way of a determining factor. Walter recalled the last time the vampire's moods had shifted so wildly. Yes, that's what got him banned to the basement for twenty years. Surely Integra wouldn't go that far...  
  
Walter could only wish.  
  
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe this whole "heightened obsession with aggravating people" was reactionary. Perhaps he didn't have enough things to kill. Walter wondered if calling in Anderson, as a personal favor, would be treason.  
  
He inhaled deeply. The well-fed, less controllable Arucard of World War II had been much harder to deal with. Yes, he could handle it. He could handle anything. Of course back then he'd been smoking and getting laid much more frequently than... Hell, the only answer was he was getting far too old for this kind of twaddle. Walter wondered if this behavior stemmed from the Nosferatu's desire for ancient history to remain ancient history. Yes, the damned one did have a thing for Sir Integra... Perhaps this was the solution to his problem?  
  
Walter lit a cigarette and clenched his fists as a familiar chill swept through the room.  
  
"Oh...Shinigami's taken up cancer sticks again."  
  
Good Lord...  
  
Walter dragged himself out of the mansion. It had been a terribly trying day. Seras raised a brow as he hurriedly drove out the gates, tires squealing. He seemed...stressed.  
  
"What do you think he's doing, Policegirl?"  
  
She looked up to see Arucard standing beside her, watching the little car disappear into London traffic. She shrugged almost nonchalantly. "Getting away from you, Master."  
  
"Why?" Arucard wrinkled his nose at Seras.  
  
"You have been tormenting him, ad nauseum. It really was a bit much, even for you." Seras was almost surprised the elder vampire's pensive expression.  
  
"...After 40 years, one would think he would have said something sooner."  
  
Walter scowled as he strode into the Hoary Bullock. That thrice bedamned No Life King! There was a reason for the epithet. To his mild astonishment and somewhat warped sense of pleasure, Anderson sat at their favorite little booth, downing what looked like hard liquor.  
  
"Walter!" The priest chuckled merrily. "There you are! Come have some absinthe! I just learned...hey, who's your friend?"  
  
Walter thought he would hug Anderson, until that last comment registered. He whirled, to find nobody anywhere near them.  
  
"Aww, come on over here. I don't mind the company. The more, the merrier, eh?"  
  
Walter tentatively seated himself.  
  
"How are you?"  
  
"You're drunk, Father Anderson."  
  
"As I damn well ought to be! I've been here since five o'clock."  
  
Walter checked the clock. It was about nine. He sighed. "Why have you been here so long?"  
  
"I have two cats back at the hotel. Won't let me get any sleep. I fed them, but they won't go away. Climbed in bed with me and everything."  
  
"Cats?" Walter asked cautiously, checking the slang.  
  
"Yes, cats." Anderson made a pawing motion. "You know. Meow meow meow meow! Kitty cats."  
  
"I see..."  
  
"Yes, St. Christopher and St. Frances are their names." He grinned broadly. "I'm taking them home with me."  
  
Walter almost naively inquired about customs, however, it would be like asking where all those blessed blades came from.  
  
"How was your day, Walter?"  
  
"...Long," was all the butler could drawl.  
  
"Oh?" Anderson smiled cheerfully, a rosy blush spread across his features. "Why the long face?"  
  
"I was born with it...Oh. It's just been Hell at the mansion. Arucard has done nothing but follow me around, complete with his verbal stream-of- conscious. That vampire...his mind doesn't work like ours." Walter paused to see Anderson playing with his fingers. "...I've resorted to violence, today. Let me tell you, Father Anderson, I am far too old for this."  
  
Anderson only laughed. "Don't tell me that wee-beasties, like that bedamned Nosferatu, are upsetting you? You're a grown man working for a professional agency, Walter."  
  
Walter bit his lip and favored his friend with a withering look. "You really are drunk, aren't you?"  
  
Father Anderson nodded cheerfully. "Quite."  
  
"A bar?" Arucard wondered aloud, as he studied the rather swanky establishment that Walter had entered. "I wonder whom he could be meeting? That old goat."  
  
"The Hoary Bullock, no less." Seras raised a brow.  
  
"You are of age, right Policegirl?"  
  
"Well, duh," Seras muttered.  
  
"What was that?"  
  
"Nothing, Master."  
  
Arucard straightened his hat and coat. "I was only inquiring because I would prefer not to be "carded."  
  
"This isn't America, Master."  
  
"True, but you are so child-like...and I changed you only a little bit ago...seems like..." Arucard scratched his head. "Well, must be going senile. Six hundred years or so of unlife will do that to you. As I was saying, you're very child-like and when I changed you, you were a virgin. As of now, I don't really know, but..."  
  
Seras stared at him, her jaw swinging from its hinges.  
  
"Close your mouth, dear. A fly might meet its unfortunate end."  
  
Alcohol is a wonderful mood enhancer. The type of mood that results is somewhat unpredictable, however, alcohol is a wonderful mood enhancer. Walter downed a straight tequila with limes and salt. Anderson was muttering strange things to some apparition only he could see.  
  
"Maxwell's being such a holy pain in the ass. Yes, I know. 'Do this! Do that! Kill this! Kill that! Maim this! Maim that! Anderson how could you do that???!!!" Anderson managed this mimicry with an incredible falsetto.  
  
Walter applauded, somewhat impressed.  
  
Anderson shook his head. "Ye gods and devils... Do you have any complaints about your boss?"  
  
Walter took another drink. "Just the ones that come with this line of work. Life and health insurance are actually great. It's just the expected longevity in this area..." He put his head down. "And my social life. My night life is very active...just not in the way I'd prefer it to be."  
  
"...Why does Arucard call me "Judas priest? I know it's Iscariot, but I'm not sure if I get it."  
  
"...I believe there's a very un-Christian rock band by that name..."  
  
"That rat bastard!"  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"Something feels wrong." Arucard leaned against Walter's car, noting the new paint job. "I can't quite place it...the aura is dampened quite a bit."  
  
Seras yawned and gingerly seated herself on the hood of the car. "He could have a date lined up. You know, it would explain the frequency of his outings. We don't want to go in there and scare her off. Poor Walter does need some human companionship." She tried to plead his cause and dissuade Arucard from barging in on some embarrassingly romantic moment.  
  
"...What kind of woman doesn't like a bit of adventure?" Arucard flashed his teeth. "She isn't worth dear Shinigami's time."  
  
"...Master, adventure is fine, but...you do tend to be a bit..."  
  
Arucard nodded knowingly. "I understand." He straightened his hat and coat.  
  
Seras let out a sigh of relief.  
  
"You're worried that I might steal her away."  
  
Anderson felt the hairs on the back of his neck perk up as he drank the absinthe. It was a very strange feeling. The liquor was quite strong. It was a familiar sensation...this wariness. He wanted to dismiss it as an effect of the alcohol, but he was rather certain that it was not natural.  
  
Walter stiffened. He too felt the disturbance in the air. It was a crude primal feeling, rather like needing to go to the water closet. It was an itch that needed to be scratched. He took another drink, wondering why his day had been so unpleasant. He gave Anderson a wan smile.  
  
"Something wicked this way comes..." He brandished his wires cautiously.  
  
Anderson fumbled with his blessed blades.  
  
Tensed for action, they both prepared for the incoming onslaught.  
  
The door creaked open.  
  
A red-eyed girl poked through, caught Walter's gaze, and waved. Walter sprang into action. Elbowing the bottle of tequila, he strategically dumped it into Anderson's lap.  
  
"Bloody Hell!" Anderson ducked under the table, trying to dry his pants with the tip of his coat.  
  
"Hi Walter!" A perky voice called, ignoring his companion who seemed occupied with something under the table. He waved back, hoping that she would go away. Immediately. Anderson was muttering curses and all too quickly, rose. "Who's your..." her voice trailed off, and her eyes widened at the sight of the hulking blonde priest. "AAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!"  
  
Anderson tilted his head to the side, a little puzzled, and looked to the source of the scream. It took a moment to register, but the priest's eyes narrowed as he realized who had come.  
  
"Draculina..."  
  
Walter grabbed Anderson's arm and paralyzed him with a severe look.  
  
"Don't do it, Father Anderson. Seras, get out of here, now! Breathe, Anderson, breathe. You're on vacation."  
  
Anderson looked at the trembling Seras. His heartbeat began to slow, and his breathing followed in synchronization. Calm. Peaceful. Serene. Go to your happy place...  
  
"...What are you caterwauling about, Policegirl?" A familiar crimson clad figure stepped into view.  
  
Walter moaned.  
  
Anderson lost it.  
  
Seras pretended not to hear the familiar sound of limbs being torn from their proper places. She ignored the Hellish screams and curses emanating from the undead. She even turned her back as the gore splattered liberally against the wall. She and Walter stood in the parking lot, having already evacuated the bar. Anderson and Arucard were still inside. Walter winced as he heard glass break. "I'm sorry, Walter. I tried to stop him. I just...I didn't mean..." "It's fine, Seras." Walter polished his monocle, with the perfect composure of a man without hope. "This place is insured by the likes of Lloyds. It'll be rebuilt." He looked sorrowfully at the now flaming bar.  
  
"...So Anderson was your "friend?"  
"Well...good company is so hard to find." Walter winced as he saw Anderson go flying through a wall and hit a lamppost, before getting back up and running, howling, back into the building. "He's not always like that."  
Seras nodded sympathetically. "It should last about five more minutes before Arucard sufficiently dismembers him. He'll escape though. Even if he is blind drunk. Master enjoys this far too much."  
  
Walter drove Seras home with him. His evening was ruined. Well, his day had not been that auspicious. He could just erase this one from memory. In fact, if no one ever mentioned this incident again...that was too much to ask for.  
  
One month later...  
  
Sir Integra had taken the event rather well. After breaking a few windows and blowing a hole through Arucard's midsection, she had become relatively reasonable. She had been very understanding about Walter's situation. In fact, she tragically took complete responsibility for his lack of suitable social activities:  
  
"Walter, Walter, Walter." She shook her head, with her face buried in her hands. "If only I'd known it was this bad. I should have been more considerate of your emotional delicacy. I should have known that even the most reliable need some sort of time for convalescence. This is my fault, I drove you to bad company. Can you ever forgive me?"  
  
Walter shuddered. It hadn't been quite that bad, but that was the underlying theme of their little talk. She was certain that he had some form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  
  
"Walter," Seras called cheerfully. Well, it had been a relief that her attitude towards him had not changed. Arucard had sulkily been avoiding him lately, much to his relief. "There's a package for you in Sir Integra's office."  
  
Walter raised a brow, wondering how that one had gotten by him. He followed Seras, wondering what would be so noteworthy as to be in Sir Integra's office.  
  
Integra sat at her desk massaging her temples.  
  
Arucard stood at her side glaring at the box.  
  
Walter came in and Integra gestured impatiently at the box. A very conspicuous red stamp informed the recipients of the package's contents: Not a bomb.  
  
There were three more indications, beside postage from Rome. "Fragile." "This way up." "If the contents of this parcel are damaged, I will personally hunt you down and rip off your ungodly head."  
  
Walter shrugged and began cutting the tape. He cautiously pulled back the flaps and peered in.  
  
Three soft, fuzzy, orange kittens lay curled up at the bottom. Walter carefully poked a furball, and it yawned cutely before settling back down. Seras leaned over.  
  
"Awwww..."  
  
"He must've drugged them or something..."  
  
Integra quirked a brow and blew a ring of smoke at the slumbering cats. Walter found one with a collar that had a little note tucked inside. He unfolded it and read it silently.  
  
_Dear Walter,  
  
I must apologize for the way that our little rendezvous was cut short. Really. I liked the Hoary Bullock and never intended to see it demolished. As much as I'd like to blame a certain demon, I must too take responsibility. The Vatican has already received the bill.  
  
In regards to the kittens...do you remember St. Christopher and St. Frances? Well it seems that St. Christopher turned out to be St. Christina...and well...Enrico says I can't keep them all. There were seven; I've passed two on to Heinkel and Yumiko and Enrico has begrudgingly agreed to take another. That leaves me with two cats and a kitten. I send them as sort of an apology. I understand that if I am to fight Arucard, I must give advanced notice and meet at a pre-agreed site. (At least that's what Enrico says...)  
  
I leave you the liberty of naming them, etc. This one's yours Walter. The other two are for Seras and Sir Integra. Arucard does not get a kitten.  
  
Best wishes,  
  
Paladin Alexander Anderson, Servant  
  
of the True God,  
  
Slayer of Evil,  
  
Scottish Priest,  
  
Cat Fanatic  
  
P.S. We should schedule another meeting. The Hoary Bullock should be open for business soon. I'll be in town in a few weeks.  
_  
Walter tucked the letter in his pocket and smiled congenially at his companions and picked his little orange fuzzball up.  
  
"Well?" Integra demanded, chewing her cigar edgily. "What is this?" She scruffed a kitten and held it up. "A declaration of war?"  
  
"...It's a present from Father Anderson." Walter stroked his little gift between the ears. "One's for you too, Miss Victoria."  
  
Seras squealed and scooped up the remaining kitten. "It's so cute!" She purred, cuddling the sleepy creature.  
  
Arucard scowled.  
  
"What'd I get?"  
  
"...Father Anderson specifically stated that you were not to receive a kitten." Walter shrugged, a little amused by Arucard's indignant expression.  
  
"We'll see if I ever send those Vatican dogs another Christmas present..." he muttered, glaring balefully at the empty box. "I can't believe that Judas priest didn't send me anything!"  
  
Integra sighed and dropped her kitten into Arucard's open hand. "I have no time for such nonsense. You take care of it, Arucard."  
  
Seras and Walter watched, eyes wide, to see what Arucard would do.  
  
He smiled sinisterly, showing too many teeth.  
  
The kitten purred loudly and rubbed its head against his chin.  
  
Arucard petted it with the full devotion of a mad scientist. "Yes my pretty...we'll show him..."  
  
Everyone unconsciously took a step back as Arucard disappeared with the kitten.  
  
"...Sir Integra, are you sure that was such a wise idea? Do you remember the last time Arucard owned a pet?"  
  
Integra shrugged. "Not my problem."  
  
Two days later...  
  
After much shredding of important documents and furniture, priceless artwork and wallpaper, two sounds could be heard.  
  
"AAAAARRRRRRRUUUUUUUUUCCCCCAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRDDDDDDDDD!!!"  
  
And the mad laughter of that subject.  
  
Anderson obviously had not had the hyperactive beasts declawed.  
  
That was a trip. Hope you enjoyed. 


End file.
